


Still Life

by Pollyanna



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-26
Updated: 2000-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollyanna/pseuds/Pollyanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac and Fitz discover that the price paid for art can be too high</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Highlander Halloween Lyric Wheel. The lyrics were "Man of Colours" by Icehouse and can be found after the story. They were given to me by tarsh, who then left the country!
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "Highlander" are the creations and property of Rysher: Panzer/Davis and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> (First posted 26th October 2000, revised March 2001)
> 
> Notes: Written for the Halloween Lyric Wheel. The lyrics were "Man of Colours" by Icehouse and can be found after the story. They were given to me by tarsh, who then left the country! Not particularly Halloweeny I'm afraid and only a little bit scary. It was dark when I was writing and I didn't want to frighten myself *G*

_18th Century Germany_

It was late afternoon, but there was still plenty of light left to follow the track through the wood as the sunny October day drew to a close. Although the trees were mostly bare of leaves the undergrowth still grew thickly on either side of the track. Mac kept a wary eye open in case of footpads but his companion seemed unconcerned at any possible danger. Fitz was extolling the virtues of the inn where they intended to stay the night, or to be more precise the beer which they brewed at the inn. They came round a corner and saw in front of them a small handcart lying on its side with a wheel lying next to it. Nobody was on the path but both men guessed that the owner of the cart was near at hand.

"You can come out," cried Mac. "We won't do you any harm."

"Yes, we're perfectly harmless," added Fitz. "Chivalrous too, if you happen to be a damsel in distress."

Mac shot a reprimanding look at Fitz who replied with a rakish quirk of his eyebrows. But before they could fall to bickering an old man warily edged his way from the shelter of the bushes.

"Good day, sirs," he said.

"Good day," replied Mac. "Do you need a hand mending your cart?"

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, sir. I was just fixing it."

"Ah, but it's easier with two. Come on, Fitz."

Fitz sighed but climbed down off his horse and then quickly strode past Mac to pick up the wheel, leaving Mac to lift the heavier cart. The wheel fitted back onto the axle easily enough, but part of the axle had broken off so there was little to hold the wheel in place. Fitz hunted round for some small twigs and wedged them into the gap, knocking them in with the pommel of his dagger.

He stood back at last, brushing mud from his hands, and said, "I think that will hold it for a little while."

"Thank you, sir. My village is just over a mile away so that should last me until I get there. I wish I could offer you some recompense for your kindness."

"We're glad to have been able to help," said Fitz with a benevolent smile. "Come on, Mac, there's a tankard with my name on it waiting for me at the inn."

They mounted and headed off down the track, but Mac stopped after a few yards and said, "Perhaps we should just go with him to make sure he gets home safely."

"He can manage now. That was an excellent repair."

"But it's not far out of our way," pleaded Mac.

"It's not the distance, it's the valuable drinking time I'm concerned about," replied Fitz with some asperity.

"Well, look here. You go on to the inn, and I'll take him home then catch up with you. It's just along this track isn't it?"

"Yes, about three miles and you can't miss it because it lies next to the crossroads," replied Fitz.

"I'll see you later then. Or tomorrow at the very latest if I have to stay the night."

"You have a soft heart, MacLeod," Fitz called after him as Mac rode away, "or a soft head!"

In the guise of settling himself more comfortably in the saddle, Mac lifted his coat-tails in a polite moon, and was gratified to hear a snort from Fitz before he heard the sound of hoof beats walking away.

Although he had denied needing any more help, and refused to let Mac pull the hand-cart, the old man was obviously relieved to have some company. Mac dismounted and walked along beside him, chatting easily and the old man introduced himself as Johann. They stopped once or twice while Mac knocked some of the twigs, that had begun to work themselves out, back into the gap. On one occasion, as he was doing this, he noticed that one of the packages in the cart seemed to be a roll of cloth, so he politely enquired if Johann was a tailor.

"Oh no, sir. That's canvas. I'm an artist."

Mac examined his companion with more care than he had taken previously. His grey hair was a little ruffled at the moment but neatly trimmed, and his clothes, though worn, had once been of good stuff. Although a little stooped, he was as tall as Mac and now that Mac had cause to study them, his hands were long and elegant. Johann noticed Mac looking at them and held them up.

"Not so sure as once they were, but they can still earn me a living. There's always some rich merchant or minor baron who wants immortality."

Caught by the word, Mac looked directly into Johann's blue eyes and was struck by the realisation that although the rest of him might have faded and withered over the years, his eyes still held all the passion and vivacity of youth. In fact they seemed almost fierce with life in the wrinkled face.

"Immortality," laughed Mac, turning away. "Don't we all want that?"

The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the village and the old man left his cart at the blacksmith's. When he started gathering his packages from the cart, Mac took most of them from him.

"But I live a little way out of the village," protested Johann.

"Even more reason to have another pair of arms to carry things," said Mac.

It was dusk by the time they arrived at Johann's house but there was still enough light to show that once a large mansion had stood there. It looked as if there had been a fire at some point and now it was nearly all roofless and ruined. One corner of a wing was still whole and it was here that Johann headed. They entered a door behind which stood a large wooden screen to block out the draught, behind this was a large room with a banked fire still glowing in the hearth. Johann dropped his packages on the table behind the screen and told Mac where he could stable his horse while he went to build up the fire. By the time, Mac came back the fire was roaring away and several candles burned around the room. Mac stopped, stunned by what they illuminated. On easels around the sides of the room stood paintings, and what paintings!

"May I take a closer look?" he asked and Johann nodded, obviously pleased at his interest. Mac picked up a large branched candlestick and examined the nearest portrait. It was of a soldier, stern and proud in a gleaming breastplate, but somehow behind the arrogant expression was all the bleakness of having seen too many deaths. Each portrait was similar, they would have been masterpieces of craft just in their execution alone, but each one also captured the essence of the sitter. Mac stopped by the painting of an old woman gathering sticks, she was looking up as if someone had just called her name. Her face was gaunt and lined yet somehow it was possible to see the pretty young girl she had once been.

"You are a true artist," said Mac with awe.

"Oh, I'm just a simple man. A man of colours," replied Johann modestly.

"More than that. I've travelled in many countries and never seen the like of these before. They are superb."

"Well, thank you then," said Johann shyly. "These are the ones I paint for my own pleasure, so perhaps they have more feeling to them. But will you sit and eat with me now? I have nothing warm I'm afraid, but there is bread and cheese and cold meat and some fine wine courtesy of one of my minor barons."

They ate and drank, Johann pressing wine on Mac as if making amends for causing him to stay the night. They talked of painting, and of Italy where Johann had studied as a young man. He sighed as he remembered the great masterpieces he had seen there and talked of his realization that he would never be able to match their brilliance, although Mac denied this vehemently. The chill of the autumn night began to creep in as the fire burnt down.

"I must go down to the cellar and get some more wood to see us through the night," said Johann.

"I'll carry it up if you'll light my way," said Mac as he rose swaying to his feet. The steps to the cellar were in the corner behind a thick door and Mac was relieved to see that they were broad and wooden, although there was no handrail.

Johann was close behind him and suddenly called out, "Watch your step." At the same time Mac felt a hand on his shoulder which seemed to be pushing him instead of catching him and unsteady under the influence of the drink, he crashed down the stairs. His head swam from the crack it had taken on the way down, and several other parts of his body complained bitterly as they began to heal.

Johann had stood the candlestick at the top of the stairs and was by his side now. "Let me help you," he said, and lifted Mac's legs. Mac thought he must have taken a harder knock than he had first thought since it seemed that someone else was carrying his shoulders, although he could feel no hands, just a sensation of floating. He was carried further into the cellar and laid down on what felt like some straw, then he felt something touch his waist and there was a click.

"What ... ?" He felt around his waist and found there was an iron band encircling it. He tried to move and there was a rattle of metal links; he was chained to the wall. He lunged towards Johann who was backing away out of reach.

"What are you doing? Let me go!"

"I'm sorry," said Johann, and he truly sounded apologetic. "You were very kind, and I don't like to take the young ones, but you've such a beautiful face and you've travelled so much for such a young man. I don't think it hurts very much and it's over quickly." He had reached the top of the stairs and picked up the candlestick. Mac thought he must still be drunk since it seemed to him that no shadow was shed by Johann as he held the light up. Then Johann had passed through the doorway and shut the heavy wooden door leaving Mac alone in the dark. He could see nothing, but he listened carefully and there was no sound, not even a rustle from the mice or rats which must surely inhabit the cellar. Even from upstairs, where Johann would be moving about, there was no sound, the wooden door muffling all noise.

He cursed and tugged futilely at the chain, but it was firmly fixed to the wall and to the band that imprisoned him. He would have to wait until he had some more light to see if there was any way of working it loose. Sitting down on the straw, he leaned against the wall, then banged his head against it once for being such a trusting fool, but that was no help in this situation and it hurt. He coughed - some dust from the straw must have caught in his throat. He coughed again, but his throat seemed to be closing up. Suddenly he could draw in no breath at all. His hands reached up to his face but there was nothing there to feel even as he tore desperately at his mouth and nose to remove whatever was stifling him. His lungs heaved like bellows, trying to find some air, and his heart began to pound as it tried to force the blood through his body. Visions from his life began to race through his mind, the hills of his home, his family, Connor, Amanda, and all the places he had been and people he had met in a dizzying carousel until they all span down into darkness.

He came awake with a choking breath as his lungs inflated. Sitting up shakily, he drew in great gasps of air, then as memory returned, he stopped and began to breathe shallowly. He peered into the surrounding dark until his eyes burned, and strained his ears listening for anything that might be moving in the darkness. He brushed his hands against his clothes, attempting to feel if anything was creeping up his body. There was nothing, no sight, nor sound, nor touch, but he felt it out there in the darkness, could almost sense its puzzlement at his return to life, even as it chewed over the cud of his memories. The air seemed to be thickening and then he was choking as time seemed to slow down and his life paraded before his eyes again. Before the dawn light filtered through the cracks in the vault it had come for him three more times.

Mac whimpered as his eyes cracked open and he scanned the dark hopelessly only to find that on this awakening the dark was broken by streaks of light. Near where he lay a grille high in the east side of the wall let in a single beam and he dragged himself towards it. His eyes darted among the shadows that still remained in the greater part of the cellar but nothing was visible. He had seen a traitor's execution once, the man disembowelled while still alive, and it seemed his soul had suffered the same fate. His mind felt raw and his memories jostled and swirled as if trying to find somewhere to hide. He lay trembling but undisturbed until he heard the wooden door above creak open and Johann descend. The old man jerked as Mac sat up.

"But this isn't possible," he said, and then he moved off into the corner of the cellar. When he returned to look down at Mac, a shadow lay behind him, which Mac watched with horror.

Even as Johann looked at Mac, he seemed to be communing with himself and then he focused on Mac properly. "An Immortal! True immortality! So many years to capture. I must start immediately."

He turned to ascend he stairs and Mac cried out, "Let me go! Please." That he was almost begging was of no import to Mac. He could not stay another night in the dark without losing his sanity.

"I have no wish to keep you locked up here, but you would surely kill me now," replied Johann.

"No. I give you my word. I'll leave and go far away. Not tell a soul," babbled Mac.

Johann moved towards him and then stopped. "No. I might need more. I'll bring you down some food later."

"My friend will come to look for me," said Mac in desperation.

"Is he an Immortal too?" asked Johann eagerly, and then he looked distracted for a moment before answering himself triumphantly, "Yes, he is, and even older than you. How wonderful!"

Mac cried out one more, "Please!" But the door shut with an echoing crash. For a few minutes he sat, unable to move then he turned and crawled rapidly towards the wall where he began to examine and tug at the chain that kept him trapped, ignoring the blood that ran down his hands.

  


* * *

  


This time when he revived he found himself blinded by light and held up a hand to block the stabbing pain. A voice was speaking to him and something tugging at his arm. He tried to gather his thoughts together to identify where he was and what this might be. He remembered Johann coming down with some food and water, ignoring his pleas and threats as he left again. The last thing had been Johann opening the door, leaving his candlestick at the top of the stairs and descending into the dark. He moaned and tried to scramble away, then lashed out blindly with his arm, nearly hitting his companion.

"Mac! You dolt-brain, I'm trying to rescue you here. Could you be a little grateful!" The voice was slurred but it seemed familiar.

"Fitz?"

"The very same. I've unlocked the chain. Can you stand?"

"How did you get free? He wanted you too."

"Wanted me? Who? You mean the old painter? He's upstairs, passed out. Tried to drink me under the table. Me! God's teeth, I've been the only one left standing at a Swedish wedding feast and he tried to outdrink me? Ha! Now come on. I found your horse and saddled him, so we're all set to leave."

Mac rose unsteadily to his feet, barely able to believe this was happening. Perhaps he was going insane after all, his mind playing tricks on him in the dark. As they stumbled towards the stairs, he stopped and pulled one of the candles from the candlestick, turned and threw it into one of the darkest corners. There was a moment as it landed when they could both see a solitary dark shadow lying on the floor before it moved with unnatural speed into the darkness.

"I ...," started Fitz and then gulped. "I'm not that drunk, am I?"

"No, Fitz" said Mac grimly. The thrown candle had caught on the straw lying on the floor and Mac took another candle and carefully set fire to every pile of rubbish and wood. Flames were flickering in every corner of the cellar as they climbed the stairs and then shut the door. Johann lay sprawled face down on the table and Fitz gestured towards him. "Do you want to ...?"

Mac looked at the sleeping figure for a long moment then said, "No need. His painting days are over."

"It's a pity in a way," said Fitz, looking around at the portraits as they headed for the door. "They are remarkable. As if you could see their very souls." He stopped by an easel which had a cloth draped over the canvas and reached up to reveal it. Mac's hand caught his and Mac shook his head.

"Ah, quite right, MacLeod. Some knowledge is best left hidden."

  


* * *

  


The inn was closed up for the night when they arrived, but Fitz banged on the door and then soothed the grumbling landlord with the help of Mac's purse. Fitz led the way up to their room and used his candle to light the one that was already there, then placed the two candlesticks on either side of the bed. Mac took off his boots and outer clothes then slipped under the blankets. Fitz climbed into bed beside him grumbling, "Move over, you Scottish clod, you take up too much room as it is." Mac turned on his side and Fitz shifted until they were back to back, not quite touching, but close enough to feel each other's warmth.

Mac hesitantly started, "If I should make any noise in the night ..."

"I'll kick you out of bed," said Fitz in a voice that broke into a yawn.

"Thanks, Fitz." Mac turned slightly and laid a hand on Fitz's arm.

Fitz reached up and patted it kindly. "What are friends for, laddie? Now let me get some sleep."

Mac stared at the candle flame for a moment, then screwing up his courage he shut his eyes and kept them shut, although every nerve screamed at him to open them and look for what lay just beyond the light in the dark corners.

THE END

* * *

  
__

__


_"Man of Colours", by Icehouse_

_There's a noise upstairs in the attic  
it's the shuffle of worn out shoes  
and the scent of the oil and brushes  
drifts down like a pale perfume_

_[chorus begin]  
and he says, "I...  
I am a man,  
a simple man,  
...a man of colours,  
and I can see  
see through the years,  
years of a man,  
...a man of colours"  
[chorus end]_

_and the old man rubs his failing eyes  
and takes a moment to watch the view  
from a window nobody knows is there  
he can see the empty street below_

_[chorus]_

_he says, "I keep my life in this paintbox  
I keep your face in these picture frames  
and when I speak to this faded canvas it tells me  
I have no need for words anyway..."_

_[chorus]_

_and he says, "I...  
I am a man,  
a simple man,  
...a man of colours,  
and I can see  
see through the tears,  
tears of a man,  
...a man of colours"_

_   
  
_   



End file.
